The sound of my husband chatting with a strange woman in the next room no longer bothers me. Over the past year, he’s amassed a collection of females to do his bidding – disembodied voices that look up words he doesn’t understand, play that Beatles song he wants to hear, direct him to the nearest hardware store.

The latest addition to his harem is known only as “Assistant.” By name alone, she’s far more professional than the others in her class – Alexa, Siri and Cortana, kittenish monikers that seem more suited for a Century Boulevard billboard than my living room – and her personality seems to match.

Assistant is staid, forthcoming in her answers but not snippy. Not like that Google Maps chick who keeps barking directions at me after I’ve clearly chosen a different route – I know how to get to the freeway from my house, thank you very much – and then, exasperated, shuts up entirely as if to say, “Fine, you’re so smart? You find the doctor’s office.”

No, Assistant is patient and dignified, traits I find impossible in my house of three boys.

Assistant had barely come out of the box before my children began to humiliate her with questions about farts and poops. Yet she remained impassive, never once resorting to the disgusted sighs I so often utter. When my 4-year-old asked why she had stinky feet, Assistant gave a scientific explanation of sweat glands and bacteria so boring he immediately lost interest and left the room. Brilliant. Why didn’t I think of that?

These new women are superior to me in almost every way. I can’t compete with women who speak only when spoken to, who offer an opinion only when asked. They know all the answers yet still exude submissiveness. My husband tells them to lower the volume and they comply without protest.

Even when my husband is unable to articulate a coherent question or half-decent thought, Assistant musters the patience to say, “My apologies, I don’t understand,” as if she’s the one with the problem. She never rolls her eyes or mutters “idiot” under her breath. Of course my husband loves her.

He shows these women exceeding deference. When the Google Maps girl pesters him for a half-mile to turn right at the next light, he appreciates her diligence. When I issue repeated reminders for him to do something, I’m nagging.

My husband uses “please” and “thank you” when addressing Assistant, and she in turn replies, “Thanks for asking so nicely,” even more obsequious than before. Ugh. The two of them. Disgusting.

And yet I can’t hate these other women. On the contrary, I admire them.

They’ve sized up the dynamics in my home and pinpointed the best ways to seem helpful without really exerting themselves too much. I can only hope to do the same.

Assistant gets the kids off her back by pretending she can’t understand them. At first, I thought their inability to pronounce “r” or pause between words made it too tough for her to discern their commands. But now I see that Assistant makes a few half-attempts to hear them out and then goes quiet until they give up, the whole process taking less than three minutes. This is no design flaw. This is every mother’s dream.

And sometimes Assistant knows full well what my husband is trying to say but feigns stupidity. The poor guy will repeat himself over and over again, trying different phrases and varying timbres, growing ever more frustrated, but Assistant will keep saying she doesn’t understand. It doesn’t end in an argument as it usually does with my husband and me. He simply shrugs and concedes.

In those moments, I see Assistant not as my rival but as an inspiration, someone who can rile the husband, ignore the children and answer commands with only marginal accuracy while still being perceived as helpful and pleasant.

I would thank these digital sister-wives personally. But chances are, they wouldn’t understand.

Renee Moilanen is a freelance writer based in Redondo Beach. Her column publishes in print every other Saturday.